


Excerpt from the Winter of 2011

by StrangeGazer



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Neglect, Early Mornings, Firstborn daughter problems, Gen, Headcanon, Mrs. Marsh is Not Nice, Not Beta Read because your girl is mad stupid, Pre-Canon, Siblings, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeGazer/pseuds/StrangeGazer
Summary: With her mother stuck in bed nursing a hangover, Kate struggles to get her sisters ready for school.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Excerpt from the Winter of 2011

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this nearly a year ago, and it's copy and pasted directly from my blog. This story is meant to be a very short piece that serves as an establishing character moment for my interpretation of Kate and her family. Consider it both a prequel and a prologue for my other works, if you will. Be warned that this is heavily based on my own extensive headcanons, so it might not be everyone's cup of tea. Not canon-compliant with Before the Storm. 
> 
> Trigger warnings include: Physical abuse, Alcoholism, Child neglect, and parents being assholes.

“Mom?” she whispers, gaps of blue pre-dawn light filtering in between the slats of the blinds. She knows better than to turn the lights on at this hour. Even a thin ray of light from the hallway could sour her mother’s mood. She pads over to her parents’ bed (in socks, of course—walking barefoot is far too loud, even on plush bedroom carpet.) She sucks in a breath, cautiously prods her mother’s shoulder.  
  
  
“Mom—”  
  
  
A hand shoots out from the covers to wrap around her wrist, her mother’s cold fingers squeezing _hard_. The tight band of pressure makes Kate’s fingers go numb. Her eyes flit over to the other side of the bed, just past the tangled mountain of blankets. Her father’s half of the bed is empty, sheets carefully smoothed over. Richard has already gone to work; _he won’t see, he never does_ (and maybe that’s a blessing.) Bloodshot blue eyes narrow dangerously at Kate, burning with a mixture of confusion and anger.  
  
  
“It’s Tuesday,” the words tumble haphazardly out of Kate’s mouth, heart pounding hard in her chest, “Lynn and Emily need to go to school.”  
  
  
A sigh of frustration. Her mother’s breath smells sickly sweet ( _rosé, always rosé_.) “Then be a good girl and _drive them_ ,” she hisses, grip slackening until Kate can wrench herself free.  
  
  
Kate tries not to let the door squeak on its hinges when she leaves.  
  
  
 _Why do we have different interpretations of God’s Perfect Word?_ her father asks his flock. Nobody in adult bible study speaks up. _God gave Man free will_ , her father answers, _and a freedom to choose means a diversity of perspectives_. She remembers looking up at the sky with her father when she was small. How they would see different animals hidden in the shape of the same cloud. It’s all a matter of perspective, he tells her, the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkling upward.  
  
  
“This can be good,” Kate murmurs in the dark of the hallway, knuckles softly rapping against the old wood door, “This _can_ be _good_.”  
  
  
She pauses, listens to the rustle of the duvet and the muffled “ _In a minute_.”  
  
  
“Okay,” Kate calls (not loud enough to wake her mother—she’s careful, she has to be.) She doesn’t budge from the door until she hears the familiar **thud** of Emily’s feet hitting the cold wood floor.  
  
  
She always chooses to wake Lynn last. It’s blatant favoritism, and not even Kate can deny that. But Lynn is young, and the baby, and growing. What kind of monster would Kate be to deprive her littlest sister from a few extra minutes of sleep?  
  
  
The door to Emily’s bedroom is closed more often than not: she is almost a teenager now, and privacy is more precious to her than gold. Lynn, by contrast, almost always has her lavender door wide open. The glow-in-the-dark stars strewn about Lynn’s ceiling shine dully at dawn. Kate maneuvers through the minefield of art supplies to sit down on her sister’s bed. She brushes Lynn’s long hair out of her face with a feather-light touch. Her sister doesn’t stir, her breathing resolutely slow and even: Lynn has always been a heavy sleeper. God bless her for that.  
  
  
“ _Lynn_ ,” she whispers. Kate is composed now, a placid smile plastered on her face. A smile should always be the first thing her sisters see in the morning, and Kate never fails to deliver.  
  
  
The blue-and-white patchwork quilt rustles as Lynn’s small body curls into a ball (always cuddling into Kate, never with her back turned away.) She wraps her small arms around Kate’s forearm, and gives her older sister the slightest tug. “Bed too comfy,” Lynn mumbles sleepily into Kate’s knit sleeve, “Don’t wanna.” An idea flashes in Kate’s head: of lying down beside Lynn, of closing her eyes and drifting away until the mid-morning sun rouses them both from sleep. But Lynn and Emily have school, and Kate is going to be late, and their mother will know if they’re not out the door, and the house of cards of consequences will come cascading down onto Kate’s shoulders.  
  
  
Kate’s hands work to peel Lynn out of her warm cocoon of quilts. Her baby sister squirms in protest. “S'cold,” Lynn protests, squeezing her eyes shut, “How’m I s'posed t'get outta bed?”  
  
  
“The first step is always the hardest,” Kate consoles her, slowly but surely coaxing her sister out of the bed, “Put one foot in front of the other.”  
  
  
Kate isn’t alone for long; Emily is awake and dressed enough to help wrangle a groggy Lynn into her winter clothes. Eight years old or not, Lynn will always insist that she doesn’t need her long johns (she does) or that extra jacket ( _she does_ ) or the large wool coat (she— _surprise_ —does.) All of Lynn’s squirming has mussed her unruly bedhead into an even bigger mess of tangles, and Emily grouses that she’s already ruined her shirt with armpit stains from the Herculean task. Kate elects to let Emily’s complaints go unaddressed until Kate can scrape the car’s windshield free of ice.  
  
  
“It’s picture day,” Emily whines, tone despondent despite having a mouthful of toaster strudel, “What am I going to do?”  
  
  
They’re all piled into the backseat of the car now, Kate with a comb in hand, undoing the last of the tangles in Lynn’s hair. Kate looks up at Emily, her cheeks already flushed from the cold. “Run inside and pack a spare shirt you can change into,” Kate tells her, “We have time.”  
  
  
Emily’s eyes light up, and she nearly tears the car door off of its hinges in her haste. Her boots slide on the ice, ominously close to tripping over. As the door slams shut, Kate has to bite her tongue not to call out.  
  
  
 _One foot in front of the other…_


End file.
